


Do you believe in fate?

by queenofthenight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:31:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2005890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthenight/pseuds/queenofthenight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a private detective that specialises in finding people's soulmates. When Greg Lestrade comes to him for help finding his partner, Sherlock can't help but sneak a look at the case file poking tantalisingly out of his bag. There's been a murder, it seems, and the police have no suspects and no leads. Join Sherlock and John for this thrilling adventure into daytime television as they solve the mystery of the poisoned production assistant!</p><p>And also maybe find Lestrade's soulmate, while they're at it, since that's what Sherlock was actually employed to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've changed up a few things. First of all, John meets Mary when they're younger. Sherlock is a private detective that specialises in finding soulmates and so has never wormed his way into Scotland Yard, and also doesn't have access to the morgue and has never met Molly. Because of this, I've got Sherlock already moved into Baker Street before John turns up, and he has presumably driven away a succession of roommates with his antics. I figure he holds court with clients in the living room just like you see him doing in the show.
> 
> Also, if anyone feels like beta-ing this for me, leave me a comment or something. I have this story already planned out and I intend on finishing it, so that would be super cool. :)

The wind cuts a chill through John's vest as he stares blankly at the park. It's horrible out, but there's nowhere else to go, not really, and he can't stand another second of sitting in his crumbling room and pretending his life isn't over. He'd had such a bright future, everyone said so. A small girl grins as she plays fetch with her oversized dog and John can't remember when the last time was that he was happy. Is this really all that's left for him?

“John Watson, is that you?”

John startles and looks up to find a tubby man walking towards him, a curious look on his face.

“Er, yes. Hello,” he says warily.

“Mike Stamford! We went to school together.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. How are you?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Teaching, actually. God, what happened to you, John? Nobody’s seen you for years. You just up and disappeared after Mary died. Soames said you went and joined the army.”

“Yeah, I did. Needed to get away from it all.”

“I can’t believe it’s really you. You’re back then, what are you doing now?”

John lifts his hand. The tremor is clearly visible, and Mike winces.

“Hard luck, mate. I can recommend you to the university if you like, there’s plenty of stuff you could teach millions of times better than me. Let me take you to get a coffee, at least, it’s freezing out here.”

John shakes his head. “Thanks, but no. I mean, a job would help, you can’t find a place to live in London on an army pension, but I just can’t yet. Might as well suffer in my bedsit a bit longer. Besides, who would want me for a roommate?

Mike laughs. Just a little chuckle, but it’s not like him to be insensitive, so John pushes it.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, it’s just- you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

“Who was the first?”

“I can do you one better, mate, I can take you right to him. I know just where you’re likely to find him this time of day.”

“Yeah, alright,” John says, because he really hasn’t got anywhere better to be. He follows Mike through a series of forgotten alleys until they reach a shop which is so run-down that John is almost certain it hasn’t been open for years. Faded gold lettering on the front window advertises the antiques and curios inside.

“Are you sure it’s okay to go in?” John asks. He tries to peer through the dusty window as Mike opens the door and squeezes through. He thinks he can just make out someone’s silhouette. Mike’s never been the crazy one, though, so he gives up and follows him inside.

The inside of the shop is just as dusty as the window suggests, and clutter is piled up along every wall. The silhouette John thought might have been a person is a mannequin with one arm missing, a majestic feathered hat perched upon its flaking head. In the corner Mike is being thoroughly ignored by a tall man inspecting a kettle.

“Er, hello,” John says hesitantly.

“This is John Watson,” Mike tells the man, who gives no indication of having heard. The silence stretches out between them.

“That’s very nice for him,” the tall man says eventually. “Is he here for a reason?”

“Look, Mike, it’s fine, I can just go, really,” John says.

“This is Sherlock Holmes,” Mike says. “He’s a private detective. He finds people’s soulmates for them.”

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asks, shining the kettle with his shirtsleeve.

“I’m sorry- what?”

“Well, you don’t need me to find your soulmate for you, since Mike brought you here to me and _then_ announced what I did for a living. You’ve already found her. No wedding ring, so I can only assume something happened while you were off fighting the war- no, just before. Her death was what caused you to join the army, wasn’t it? Therefore, since I mentioned to Mike earlier that I was in need of a new roommate, and here you are, a single man who has already found his soulmate, you must be in need of a place to live as well. I play the violin when I’m thinking, often at odd hours. Does that bother you?”

“I- you didn’t even _look_ at me, how on earth did you know all that?”

Sherlock turns around and rolls his eyes. “Really, John, this shop is filled with reflective surfaces, dust-covered though many of them are. Mike, I hope you aren’t trying to foist another imbecile on me.”

Mike holds up his hands in protest. “I’d never have got through school if it weren’t for John,” he says, “and besides, you think everyone is an imbecile. John at least is patient enough to deal with you. Probably.”

“What a glowing recommendation of your personality,” John says. “Alright. Beggars can’t be choosers. What’s this flat like, then?”

“Oh, nice little thing up on Baker street. I get it cheap, the landlady owed me a favour.”

“Sherlock, you got her soulmate convicted for murder.” Mike corrects.

“Yes, and he was a brute that she’s better to be away from. Just because _your_ parents were the model of a perfect partnership doesn’t mean every pair is a good one.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” John says before Mike can open his mouth again. “Can we look at it some time? I mean, I like to see things for myself.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Sherlock says. “My last roommate moved out about a week ago, and I don’t think he left anything behind, so it should be fine. You don’t mind having the upstairs room, do you?”

“No, that’s fine,” John says. “Here, give me your phone number, then I can text you if something comes up. Is tomorrow morning fine?”

“Perfectly,” Sherlock says. “I’ll see you then.”

“Right,” John says. “Er, how about that coffee, Mike?”

“Good idea,” Mike says. “See you around, Holmes.”

Sherlock waves distractedly, three teapots and a saucepan now clutched against his chest. John shakes his head and follows Mike out.

 

* * *

 

“Is he always like that?” John asks, gingerly sipping his too-hot coffee.

“Like what?” Mike says. “Utterly indifferent to social niceties and anyone other than himself? Pretty much. Don’t let him fool you, though. He’s mad, but I’ve never seen him back down from a challenge. He can find anybody’s soulmate. ‘Cept his own, of course.”

“Why not?” John asks. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to?”

Mike shakes his head. “I’ve seen his wrists,” he says. “He doesn’t _have_ a name, John. Figures, really. It’s hard enough finding someone who’ll put up with him, let alone someone who’d actually want him.”

“Oh,” John says. “I- I guess that would make you kind of bitter about the whole thing. How come he does what he does, then?”

“He gets bored,” Mike explains. “He wanted to be a policeman, for a while, but they kicked him out of the academy, and he wasn’t getting any cases as a normal private detective. He still finds it all terribly droll, mind, but there’s always someone out there looking for their soulmate. I mean, when all you’ve got is a name and vague flashes of that person’s life when you dreams, sometimes you just have to wait it out and hope you run into each other one day. Sherlock, though? He’s tracked down people all over the world. Hasn’t got it wrong, either. Dunno how he does it. What about you, John? Are you going to be okay seeing excited new-matched when you and… well. Since she’s gone.”

“I made my peace a long time ago,” John tells him. “I thought I was one of the lucky ones when I met her, just out of high school, and I think I was, really. We had all our years at university together, and they were wonderful years, weren’t they? I’ve seen so many couples go wrong and sour the longer they’re together, so I’m glad the years Mary and I had together were happy. Not everybody gets the same chance I had.”

“You always were the perfect couple,” Mike says. “Listen, come and have dinner with me and the missus sometime, alright? You won’t have met her, Sherlock got us together a few years back. Have a proper home-cooked meal, I’m sure you’re not getting fed right where you are.”

“Well, clearly she does well, from the looks of you,” John jokes, and downs the last of his coffee. “Whenever’s good for you. Send me a text, yeah?”

“Will do. It was good to see you again, John Watson.”

“And you, Mike.”

The breeze is chilly, especially compared to the warm confines of the coffee shop, but John doesn’t mind so much after years in the sweltering heat. He goes home, and sits in his room, and for the first night in forever reaches for his computer instead of the gun hidden in his drawer. He needs to know about Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like I _should_ be getting updates done for this about every week or so depending on what's going on for me. I really want to do some art for the first chapter, but my tablet recently broke, so I guess we'll see how I go with some more traditional media. It's... been a while. Also I'm still looking for a beta, if anyone's interested!  
>  Well, do enjoy :)

It’s a sunny day when John moves in with Sherlock. His possessions are mercifully few, but the shabby velvet curtains and gauche wallpaper make the mostly-empty room seem a million times more like a home than his old place.

He stows his few things around the room and slides his now-empty bag under the bed, causing masses of dust to fly out and halo in the sunshine. John grimaces and opens the window. The room was a little musty anyway, so it will probably be worth it to air it out a bit while he can. He might go see if Mrs Hudson's in, and if not, give Mike a ring to let him know how he's going. Mike always did like to know the gossip.

He walks down the stairs to find Sherlock rushing up into their flat.

"Ah, good timing, John," he says. "I've got a client coming by just now, fellow by the name of Henry Walsh. Do you think you could show him in while I get changed?"

"I- what, why do you even _need_ to get changed?" John asks. "You look fine."

"Great, thanks, I'll be out in a jiffy."

John rolls his eyes, but it's a pretty small favour, he supposes, so he sits on a chair and waits for the doorbell to ring.

It doesn't ring. John hears the front door open and assumes it's Mrs Hudson, but Sherlock strides out just as a young man walks in through the front door. Sherlock must have left it unlocked behind him.

“You must be Henry Walsh,” Sherlock says.

“Er, yes. I’ve heard that you’re very good at finding people’s soulmates. I need to find mine quite soon, so… can you help me?”

He looks like he’s barely turned twenty, and isn’t the kind of man John would expect to be in such a rush to find his soulmate. He’s dressed cleanly, but not ostentatiously, and his hair is flopping down into his eyes a little. He’s obviously nervous.

“Show me your wrist,” Sherlock commands. The man bares his wrist, and Sherlock makes a little ‘hrmmm’ of dissatisfaction.

“I’ve looked everywhere. None of them were the right Maxine,” he explains.

“Well, you’ve been looking in entirely the wrong places. It’s obvious, really,” Sherlock mutters.

“All my parents care about anymore is me finding her and starting a family. I don’t want to disappoint them. You’ve got to help me, Mr Holmes,” he pleads.

Ah. _That_ John understands. John was okay, because he did everything their parents expected and more, but he saw the pressure that was heaped onto Harry because all she wanted was to be an artist. She crumbled under that pressure, and not even her own soul mate could drag her back. It’s a pity, because John can see so much promise in this boy.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Sherlock continues nonchalantly. “Unfortunately, your choice now is to disappoint your parents, or forget about your soulmate entirely.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Mr Walsh says, with the air of someone talking to a small child. “I want you to find my soul mate so I can marry her and my parents will be happy, not whate-.”

“Your tattoo, Mr Walsh, has been altered,” Sherlock interrupts, enunciating clearly and precisely. “Your soulmate is not Maxine Mitchell, it is _Max_. I imagine your parents were mortified with the prospect and are trying to get you tied down to a ‘normal’ life with responsibilities that you won’t abandon _before_ you meet your soulmate.”

“I- no. You’re lying.”

“Why on earth would I do that? For once in your life, observe! You can see the differences in ink colouration, and the style of these three letters is ever so slightly different. An idiot could see it.”

Sherlock doesn’t seem to care that he’s bringing someone’s entire life crashing down. Henry Walsh looks like he’s about to explode. John decides that, in the interest of not having a fistfight erupt in his flat, he should probably intervene.

“Hey,” he says softly, “There are people that end up living happily ever after with someone who isn’t their soulmate. Not many, but there are. If you think you could be happy settling down, getting married and having kids, then find a nice lady that wants the same and do it. If you want to find your soul mate, then do that. Don’t do it for your parents. Do it for yourself.”

“Wow,” Henry says," you know what? I don’t have to sit here and listen to you two faggots tell me who to spend my life with. You just can’t admit that you don’t have any idea how to find her. Fuck you both, you dirty old men.”

He strides out, leaving a shellshocked John and an incensed Sherlock in his wake.

“I’m not wrong!” Sherlock calls after him.

“Well,” John says, after a beat. “That could have gone better. Less shouting, perhaps.”

“Oh, he’ll be back,” Sherlock says. “I was right, after all. They usually come back, anyway.”

“Clients often yell at you, then?” John remarks.

“Quite often, yes. Do you want some tea? There’s another one coming in about fifteen minutes and I think he might take a little bit longer.”

“Oh, yeah. Tea would be great,” John says. Sherlock makes absolutely no move to get up and get it himself, and John realises that he’s supposed to make it. Ah. He gets up with a groan and ambles over to the fridge.

Inside the fridge is an absolute mess. There’s green and gray mould growing over an assortment of things that John could _probably_ identify if he took a closer look, but he really doesn’t want to. In the back is a squashy package of what looks like intestines. John has eaten a lot of terrible things, but this just makes him want to gag. The milk _looks_ safe, but he really isn't game to touch it.

“Sherlock,” he says carefully. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but there is an awful lot of mould in this fridge.”

“Yes, do be careful with it,” Sherlock calls back, unconcerned. “I need that.”

“Do you… do you _eat_ this?” John asks slowly. “How are you not dead?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Don’t be daft, it’s for an experiment. And eating just slows me down. I can buy food when I need it.”

“Yeah, not eating at all is not a particularly good option either,” John informs him as he closes the fridge door in disgust and goes about putting the kettle on. “Anyway, I don’t really feel like being poisoned today, so I’m going to go borrow some milk from Mrs Hudson. Back in a minute.”

“Bring back some biscuits,” Sherlock tells him. “I ate the last of the others.”

So he’ll eat biscuits, but not proper food, John thinks to himself. The man is like a child. No wonder all his previous flatmates lasted less than a week.

The doorbell rings as John reaches the bottom of the stairs, and he opens it to find a man a little older than himself. He has a pleasant face, and he smiles broadly at John as he sticks his hand out for a handshake.

“Greg Lestrade,” he says. “Are you Sherlock Holmes?”

“Oh, god, no,” John says, “I’m his flatmate. He’s upstairs, I’m just getting some milk, I’ll be up in a moment. Go right through.”

The man- Greg, John corrects himself- nods and walks upstairs. John calls out for Mrs Hudson, but she’s not home, so he leaves a note apologising and promising to buy her some milk later. He grabs a cup and fills it with milk before heading back upstairs.

“-don’t know why you think I’ll have any better luck,” John hears. “You’re a policeman, surely you’ve got access to databases and… things.”

“You’re the best one out, Holmes,” Greg says as John walks back in and into the kitchen. “They say you’ve never been wrong. I don’t know how you do it, but everyone’s agreed: somehow you _do_.”

“It doesn’t worry you that I don’t have a soulmate of my own?” Sherlock asks.

Greg shrugs. “Look, mate, as long as you can do the job I don’t care what you do in your own time.”

“Good,” Sherlock says. “Alright, let me see your wrist.”

John returns from the kitchen with the tea just as Greg is baring his wrist. ‘Ashley Simmons’ is written there in an elegant script.

“Very nice,” Sherlock says approvingly. “What do you know so far?”

“Well, I know she’s in London, or she has been,” Greg explains. “I keep seeing flashes of her driving a car about town. I know she has a cat. Not much else than that, really. I only started getting them about a year ago.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock says. “The proximity, maybe? She might have moved from somewhere further away. I’ll have to look into it.”

“That’d be great,” Greg says, sipping his tea. “So how long do you think this will take, roughly?”

“Well, it varies, but since she’s in the London area it shouldn’t be too difficult,” Sherlock begins. “Depending on how many other cases I take on, and-”

He’s cut off by a loud ringing from Greg’s phone. “Sorry, I need to take this. Hello? Yes, alright. I’ll be there in… oh, twenty minutes? Yeah. Alright. Thanks, Sally.”

“Work?” John asks.

“Yeah,” Greg says, grimacing. “Sorry, I’m going to have to go. Listen, do you mind if I use your toilet? I’m going straight to the scene.”

“Not a problem,” Sherlock says smoothly. “It’s right through there.”

The second Lestrade is through the door Sherlock jumps up and snatches a file from his bag.

“You can’t do that!” John hisses. “Put it back!”

“Oh, come on, John,” Sherlock says. “He’s asking for it, not closing his bag properly. I might never get a chance to see something interesting like this ever again.”

“You’re looking at confidential records! That’s illegal!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, then opens the file and begins scanning through it. “Oh, yes. _Murder_.”

“Put it back!”

Sherlock whips out his phone and takes a picture of each page, and is stashing it back in the bag just as they hear the flush of the toilet. John picks up his tea and hides behind it as Greg comes back, sure that he looks incredibly guilty. Sherlock doesn’t look guilty at all.

“Right, well, I’ll be in touch,” Greg says as he slings his bag over his shoulder. “Probably better to text me, I won’t pick up if I’m on duty.”

“Of course. I’ll let you know when I find something,” Sherlock says. “Goodbye.”

John waits until he hears the front door shut, counts an extra five seconds, then rounds on Sherlock.

“Delete them.”

“I’m not deleting them.”

“Sherlock, you can’t interfere with the police. The man wants you to find his soulmate, nothing more.”

“Oh, don’t be _boring_ , John. Aren’t you interested?”

John rolls his eyes. “Even if you did get involved, what could you do? The police have better resources than you. They can question the people at the crime scene. They are a thousand times better equipped to solve this than you.”

“And I have all the information they found right here,” Sherlock says. “The police _see_ , but they don’t _observe_. I’m just joining the dots for them, that’s all.”

John sighs and slumps back down in his chair.

“If this is what you really want, I’m not going to stop you,” he says. “Alright. Tell me about it. Prove how clever you are.”

“Right!” Sherlock exclaims, and erupts into a flurry of activity. He sweeps all the papers from one side of the table onto the floor, and John hurriedly grabs the teapot and cups before Sherlock can do the same to them.

They’ve only had tea in them, really, and it hasn’t had time to dry on, so he gives them a cursory swipe with the cloth, rinses them, and stacks everything on the draining rack. By the time he gets back Sherlock is perched on the couch with the photos loaded onto his computer.

John sits down next to him and peers at the one on the screen.

  * Name: Phyllis Jane Bayles
  * Occupation: Production Assistant at Lemon Grove studios- most recently worked on “Secret Soulmate”
  * The deceased was found at her post, apparently unconscious, on the evening of June 5 by the clean-up crew after filming. An ambulance was called, and on arriving at the scene found her in severe respiratory depression, with death occurring almost immediately after arrival. Toxicology results show opiates in the system. It is unknown if the deceased was a recreational drug user. Her family insists that she was not, and so far no friends have been identified. Soulmate “Elizabeth Brown” has not yet been identified and family believe they had not yet met. At this point no motivation for killing Miss Bayles has been ascertained. No leads have produced a viable path of inquest.



“No leads!” Sherlock says gleefully. “Boring, otherwise, but the police must have been sitting on this for a little while if they’ve already got toxicology results back, so basically they’re stuck. Oh, this is fantastic.”

“Lemon Grove studios,” John muses. “Hang on, wasn’t Secret Soulmate that show that had the winners go missing last season? A couple months after they’d won, they just disappeared. They never found their bodies. It was all over the news.”

“Was it?” Sherlock says. “That’s interesting. It could be related. To kill two people, though, to get rid of them entirely and leave no evidence, you’d have to be very good at it. You'd probably need more than one person working as a team. Why would someone put all that effort in, and then suddenly turn around and poison somebody? It's sloppy. Something doesn’t add up. Still, it’s somewhere to start. Where are those biscuits you got from Mrs Hudson?”

“She was out,” John says. “I’ve got to go to Tesco’s anyway and buy her some more milk. Why don’t I get you a sandwich or something?”

“If you _must_ ,” Sherlock says, screwing up his face. “And a chocolate milk.”

“Right,” John says. “Well. I’ll be right back, then.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He’s already typing away madly at the computer, searching for clues.

He's an absolute madman, John thinks.

He's not entirely sure if he minds.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That was nothing like a week between updates, was it?
> 
> Ah well, inconsistent is better than no update at all.

“This is useless!” Sherlock proclaims angrily. John looks on sadly at the shattered remains of their second-best teacup. Well… they _are_ Sherlock’s, he supposes, and technically he can do what he wants with them. John just wishes that Sherlock would do something that _doesn’t_ involve a spreading stain on the wallpaper and a mess that someone (John or Mrs Hudson, John hasn't seen Sherlock do anything but make _more_ messes) is going to have to clean up later. He didn’t believe him the first time he claimed not to need much sleep, and the way he’s acting like a two-year old that needs a nap isn’t convincing John otherwise.

“It’s been three days, Sherlock,” he reasons. “You’ve been staring at that computer screen for hours and I’m fairly sure you didn’t sleep last night. You need to take a break.”

Sherlock, to John’s surprise, purses his lips and nods. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Wait, really?" John asks. He's only been living with him for a few days, but he already know this is very uncharacteristic behaviour for Sherlock and is suitably wary. "So you’ll go to bed now, but not the last three times I suggested it?”

“Don’t be dull, John,” Sherlock says. “You’re right in that this clearly isn’t working, so we need to try something else. Get your coat, we’re going out.”

Yeah. Sometimes John would rather he wasn't right.

“No- Sherlock, that’s not what I _meant_ ,” he protests wearily. “What are you even planning on doing? If these people didn’t exist on the internet until about a year ago, where can we possibly find information about them?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I ruin your plans to sit here and mope and watch East Enders reruns all day?” Sherlock says in the way that means he isn’t sorry at all. “This will be much more interesting, I promise. Get your coat.”

John opens his mouth to protest, but he had been planning on doing that, and he’s absolutely sure that he _doesn’t_ want to listen to a detailed run-down on exactly how Sherlock managed to deduce his television-watching habits. No need to give him another reason to feel superior. 

John's coat is upstairs in his bedroom, and Sherlock is down the stairs and out the door before John’s even reached the top of the stairs, the lanky git. John just manages to climb into the cab as Sherlock is finishing giving the driver directions.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Johns says as the cab slides back into traffic.

“I shouldn’t have to,” Sherlock says. “It must be terribly dull to have your head filled with nothing but your mundane little problems and poor television and worries about the milk. How on earth do you cope?”

“Mundane? You put poison in the milk and didn’t tell me, Sherlock, that’s not exactly something that inspires calm in me. What if you’d been out when I went to drink it? If you’re going to keep your experiments in the fridge, which is a gigantic concession on my part, by the way, since that’s where I usually like to keep my food, you could at least have a little decency and label the damn things.”

“It was clearly the wrong colour," Sherlock says, as if it's John's fault for being a normal human being. "You should have known.”

John bristles and somehow resists the urge to slap Sherlock right on his smarmy mouth. “Well, if _you’re_ so clever, why haven’t you learned anything about these people after searching for three days straight?”

“I learned a lot from trying to trace them, actually,” Sherlock says archly. 

“You found absolutely nothing.”

“Exactly, John! If I couldn’t trace them, that doesn’t just mean that they don’t have Facebook. That means they don’t have a bank account, the government doesn’t have any record of them, their place of employment doesn’t keep electronic records, the entire world has no evidence that they exist. Our first option, naturally, is that they’re ghosts who have lived a life completely out of the public eye, which is frankly an extremely difficult feat.”

“What, seriously? You think they’re part of some kind of… I dunno, anti-technology group or something?”

“No, John. I think they’re the second option, which is that the names they go by on your trashy show are fake.”

That does make a lot more sense, John thinks. "Then that’s why all the information about them starts suddenly appearing about a year ago. That’s when they created their new identities.”

“There’s hope for you yet,” Sherlock says approvingly. “And?”

“And… well, they didn’t do a very good job of it, which means they probably did it themselves instead of hiring someone. If we’ve noticed, you’d think someone else would have. Surely the tv studio does background checks and that kind of thing?”

Sherlock grins, and John can't help but smile back. “Hopefully they keep neat paperwork.”

 

* * *

 

 

The studio does not keep neat paperwork.

John expected that they’d have trouble sneaking in, but the guard on duty took one look at them and decided they were extras and sent them right on in. This, though? There’s no rhyme or reason to the way everything’s been stored. There’s even sheets of loose paper floating around the floor. Clearly nobody here thinks it's very important, which is silly, because don't people try to sue each other all the time now? Paperwork has always been a necessary evil for John, so he has trouble understanding how someone could possibly think this was _okay_.

“Well, it's no wonder nobody found anything wrong with them,” John says finally. “The second it ended up in here, their paperwork would have been lost forever. That is, if they did it at all.”

“They must have at some point,” Sherlock says, swiping dust from a file in disgust. “The studio would have at least needed their bank details so that they could pay them.”

John pulls out a folder at random and begins flipping through it, screwing his nose up as dust flies into his face. “Pity we can’t access their bank records," he muses. "we could trace where they’d transferred the money to and find them that way.”

“Oh, I already tried that,” Sherlock says. “They withdrew it all as cash, except for a few payments as living expenses and a bulk payment to the Royal Marsden.”

“The hospital? Under whose name?”

Sherlock smacks his head. “Stupid!” he exclaims harshly. “I didn’t check. You distracted me with the milk, and I forgot.”

“Well, that’s alright, we can check when we go home,” John says consolingly. “No big deal.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. Maybe it _is_ a big deal for him, John thinks. He’s certainly not the most personable man John’s ever met. Maybe all Sherlock has is his intellect. Perhaps forgetting something really _is_ unforgivable to him.

He doesn’t know what to say after that, so he goes back to sifting through files. It seems like hours before Sherlock speaks again. “Look at this, John,” he says.

“Did you find it?” John asks.

“No, but I found something just as good. It’s Phyllis Bayles’ record.”

John peers at it. “The dead woman? What does it say?”

“The usual, mostly. Look at this footnote, though: ‘Do not discuss any aspects of Phyllis’ life with anyone who does not identify themselves, or who identifies themselves as her parents. If they continue to call, state that company policy does not allow the discussion of details with anyone outside the studios.”

John frowns. “I wonder what she didn’t want her parents to know.”

“No sense in guessing,” Sherlock says. “Besides, I think that’s all we’re going to find here for now. Come along, John.”

He brushes the last of the dust off the file and tucks it under his arm, striding out like he owns the place. Nobody stops them, and the guard at the gate wishes them a nice afternoon on their way out. It barely feels like what they just did was illegal, even though John knows that it definitely was. This clearly isn't the first time Sherlock's done something like this.

He expects Sherlock to hail a cab when they’re back out on the street, but instead he leads John even further away from Baker Street. It’s hard to keep up. John gets cuts off by the crowd twice and only just manages to catch up with Sherlock both times. Suddenly, Sherlock comes to a halt, checks the papers in his hand, and strides up to the nearest house. A neatly-dressed woman answers the door.

“Whatever it is you’re selling, I don’t want it,” she says. Sherlock shoves his foot in the door before she can close it and smiles apologetically.

“I’m very sorry to interrupt you, especially at this sad time,” he says glibly. “My colleague and I are from Lemon Grove Studios. It’s been brought to our attention that your daughter was in possession of some copyrighted material, and we’d like to retrieve it so there’s no chance of a leak. I understand this may be hard for you, but she _did_ sign a contract stating that all material was to be returned to the company when her employment ceased, and we need to retrieve it as soon as possible.”

“’When her employment ceased’. You might as well say she’s dead and be over with it,” the woman who must be Phyllis Bayles’ mother says, and Sherlock shuffles through the file and passes her Phyllis’ contract. She reads it through carefully, and it must pass her inspection, because she grudgingly opens the door further and lets them in. The house is entirely too clean and tidy for John's liking; it seems as though it’s on display, not somewhere that people actually live. The floors are slippery with polish and the walls are stark white. He doesn’t like it one bit.

Mrs Bayles leads them up the stairs and into a small room. The bed is neatly made, and a book is open on the desk, like the owner just stepped out for a second and is coming right back. There are no pictures on the walls.

“Thank you, Mrs Bayles,” Sherlock says smoothly. “We won’t be very long.”

“Yes, of course,” she says, and leaves them to it. John glances around the room and idly pulls the cupboard door open. Phyllis' clothes hang there neatly, and the shelf above is crammed with various balls of wool. They're the most brightly-coloured things in the room- even the bookshelf is drab, filled with religious texts in muted colours.

“Where are all the pictures of her friends?” John wonders. “There’s no real evidence here that she _had_ any, and she seems to have a pretty conservative background. I guess the police report was right.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock says shortly. “Conservative background, yes, but this isn’t the room of somebody that has no friends, this is the room of somebody that has to _hide_ their friends because someone with power over them would disapprove. Think about it. She worked in the movie industry, but there’s no indication of that in this room; no television, no movies, no scripts. You don’t just happen to get a job in that industry, either, it’s competitive. Therefore, it was something she wanted very much, but her parents disapproved of, so she takes care not to remind them of it. Her friends will be hidden in much the same way.”

John frowns and looks around the room again. Sherlock's right, of course.

“Hidden how?," he asks eventually. "Under her mattress or something? I suppose she could just have it all digitally, but she either doesn’t have a computer or the police confiscated it already.”

“The police have her phone, because it was on her when she died,” Sherlock says. “ and I daresay it depends upon which chores she does; if she does her own washing, then under the mattress would be relatively safe. You’re welcome to check.”

John shrugs and lifts the mattress. The slats are beginning to crack in places, but there’s nothing hidden underneath. He puts it back gently, neatly tucking the corners of the sheets under.

“Behind photo frames is common, but she doesn’t have any,” Sherlock continues. “Not amongst her clothes, since she doesn’t do her own washing, but perhaps some of the books are decoys. Ah- what’s that?” He points up towards the cupboard, where a thin roll of fabric is poking out between the skeins of yarn. John takes it carefully, then unties the tie and spreads it out on the bed. It’s nothing more than a case for knitting needles, but Sherlock seizes it triumphantly.

“I _thought_ so,” he says.

“Thought what?” John asks dutifully.

“The binding here on one side is too thick. She’s used something like strips of a fridge magnet to keep it closed. And inside…” He pulls the binding apart easily, revealing a thin sheaf of papers carefully placed between the two layers of cloth. Sherlock pulls them out and inspects them one by one, revealing a series of letters and some photos which have been printed onto regular paper. The letters are addressed to “My dearest Lis”, from “Your Liz”.

“They’re keepsakes,” John says. “They must be from her soulmate.”

“I’d say so,” Sherlock says, reattaching the edge of the case and rolling it back up. “Her soulmate which her family insisted she didn't have. We’d better take these with us. They might contain useful information.”

“Well, I doubt she wants anyone else to find them,” John says sadly. “Do you see anything else?”

They poke around the room a little more. Some of the books are in fact false, the religious covers glued over volumes of Shakespeare and television scripts, but there doesn’t seem to be anything else to find. Sherlock decides that she probably stashed most of her things somewhere else, and John agrees. Sherlock is just shoving the papers in his folder when Mrs Bayles reappears.

“I think you’ve been here quite long enough,” she says.

“Yes, of course,” John says before Sherlock can get a word in. “We have what we came for.”

“I’ll see you out,” she says, and watches them intensely as they walk back through the house. John can't help but feel like he should be making polite conversation, or apologising for intruding on her family. Sherlock, thank God, keeps his mouth shut and doesn't complain about the way Phyllis Bayles was forced to hide her entire life from her family until they're safely back on the street.

"Everybody thinks soulmates are wonderful things and that when you find yours you're going to be happy forever," he says darkly. "They always forget about the ones that aren't happy, the ones that have to hide their soulmates or have their soulmates killed or the ones who have no soulmates at all. Mrs Hudson's soulmate was a vicious killer, you know, you can't tell me that having to live with that made her happy. Everybody's too busy glorifying it instead. The system is broken, John."

"I know," John says. "I know."

Sherlock sways on his feet a little, and John's reminded that he hasn't slept properly since John moved in, and probably long before that.

"We're not going anywhere else, are we?" he asks. "My feet are killing me, I should have worn different shoes."

“Just home,” Sherlock says. “We need to look into those bank details again. We can get a cab just around the corner.”

John smiles. “Sounds good to me,” he agrees, proud that this haughty, intelligent man has deigned to include him. He's more content than he's been in a long time. “Let’s go home.”


End file.
